


The Reunion

by disastertown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baker Street, Crying, Embarrassment, Funny, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post Season 2, Reunion, Scars, Sherlock Proposes to John, Tears, The Empty Hearse, ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4340057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disastertown/pseuds/disastertown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 221B, Sherlock proposes to John after returning from the dead and receives an unexpected reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Has a "The Great Gatsby" motive, when Gatsby and Daisy meet for the first time in a couple of years at his house in West Egg.

“Call me up in the middle of the night two days before, saying that I have to come alone, telling me I should dress well- at this dark hour! Are you in love with me?” John joked sheepishly as Sherlock nervously pushed open the creaky door and made way for both of them to enter his flat. 

It was not supposed to be raining, but oh well, Sherlock thought, the weather had a habit of being much more unpredictable than the criminal mind. Besides, a fair number of ordinary people believed a bit of rain gave everything a slight romantic touch, which would come incredibly useful for what Sherlock was about to do, something he had spent countless sleepless nights surmising, experimenting with all the possible scenarios that drifted his way, decking it with feathers and lilies with his creative passion, but then knocking it all down in his head in the morning, laughing to himself ironically how stupid he was to believe that John would be impressed by such a ridiculous thing, and thanking his rational mind for intervening and preventing him from carrying it out in real life. In the end he decided to make it simple- that was his strength, wasn’t it?- effective, fast and to the point without wasting any time. 

In the small cramped space of the doorway to the apartment, they struggled to get their wet boots off. Never mind how romantic the rain could be- shuffling nearly against each other at the narrow beginning of the hallway was uncomfortable and awkward.

They hung their damp raincoats and umbrellas and Sherlock started to tread down the corridor, the long isle that he had spent so much time pacing back and forth, running in and out with the thrill for the cases, or simply walking along to go to the store to buy milk ever since John couldn't do that for him anymore. With John's presence, or maybe it was just because of how it looked in the light, the walls that surrounded his sides seemed different, as if it were showing a new side of beauty that Sherlock had never been able to see when he had walked along it alone. 

As a matter of fact, John's mere presence mysteriously gave everything in the apartment a new touch. Sherlock swore it wasn't just because of the fireplace he had lit up a few hours before. He thought for a moment of how something that had nearly killed John a few days back would make everything so beautiful. The quiet crackling of the spattering pieces of flames in the flat seemed to whisper softly, foreshadowing the lovely secrets he was going to spill. The carpet and armchair that had had a dull crimson colour now seemed to assume a much richer tone of rosy red. The morbid skull of halloween-ish things now seemed like the head of a harmless christmassy doll smiling and cheering at everyone and everything. Each object arrayed on the mantelpiece seemed to possess its own individuality but each of them complimented each other as the shadows of the fire crackling underneath cast warm shadows of dancing flames on them, in the walls behind, and faintly throughout the entire room. The disarrayed scrabbling, maps, notes and paintings pined on the wall had shadows thrown on them so peculiarly that their disorganized nature blended in with the stability of the trade-mark wallpaper that did not look so cliche at the moment. The magic of the orange dancers enchanted every object in the room. But the spell wouldn't have been complete if John wasn't standing in the opening with him.


	2. Chapter 2

"You, lit up the fireplace." John's artificial voice broke the silence of the quiet chanting happening under the mantlepiece. "You don't,　normally do that."

A bit off to the center of the room, not within the reach of the two comparably big armchairs, was a miniature table about ａ foot high. There were several chinas placed on it, its cool glossy surface reflecting the warm-colored blazes, waiting patiently to be used. 

"Tea?" Sherlock asked as tried to lead John to the chinas. 

"A bit late, but sure," John said after a moment of hesitation, "The rain was freezing."

Sherlock sat down on the carpet in front of the cups and John soon did the same so that they were facing each other. The diameter of the table was smaller than he thought, and somehow it made the situation more intimate.

John glanced at the armchairs which were looking comparably tall next to the two of them. "I've noticed you've got my chair back," John remarked blankly.

"I got it back a long time ago," Sherlock murmured. A moment of silence followed. 

"Who sits there?" John inquired, straining to pretend as though everything was normal, "The clients? It's got to have some use. It's not like you sit on your own armchair and stare into one that is completely empty." He laughed, but then realized he had made a slight mistake. He knew deep down that Sherlock wouldn't let anyone sit on his old chair even if it meant he had to sit next to a vacant one. 

"Sherlock," John whispered, half scared about what was about to happen. He looked at Sherlock carefully. "Why are we sitting down on the floor?"

Sherlock decided to do this clean-cut, so he got straight to the point. "John." he started as he stared at his own long, awkward nervous fingers lain in front of him. No matter how many times he had said it, in distress, in happiness, in the middle of the night, the name sounded funny, coming out of his mouth in that context. A one-syllable name, so simple and plain, but it was what he had almost died trying to save. 

He decided he was not going to look at him as he spoke. He was going to focus on forming the words right. He slipped out the precious box and held it in his palms. Only when it opened, revealing a diamond ring, did he dare to look up at him before saying, "John, I love you.

"I have always wanted to do this, John. But it was... delayed. For what felt like more than I had expected." 

Flashbacks started hitting at the back of his head. He thought of the first time they met, the dinner, and then dashing off through the streets of London, chasing a cab, blood pumping through their veins for reasons other than the thrill of the case, under the shining moon, like they were the main lovers of some Disney movie. The whole progress of getting to know the beautiful person and the whole progress of getting to be known. How their relationship had grown deeper despite the silence of the surface, every time John had saved Sherlock's life and Sherlock had saved John's, literally and emotionally. He thought of the time they broke into Baskerville, when John had drove the automobile and they would just steal glances at each other and immediately stare out the window when they were caught looking by the other person as if nothing had happened and pretend they were so focused on the case of the hound and the glowing blue rabbit. He thought of the countless times they simply dwelled in their flat, Sherlock mourning about boredom while fiddling with the violin while John read the papers, struggling to concentrate. 

"I know that a thousand apologies won't be enough to compensate for that time lost, for the wound I left. And I hope it's not too late when I say that I have loved you, since the first day we met, and I still love you now deeply, unconditionally and wholeheartedly and I was wondering if you felt the same. And I really do hope it is not too late to do this."


	3. Reaction

John's expression was unreadable. His dark eyes reflecting the white sparkling gem seemed to quiver a little as if he were deep in thought. That pathetic moustache Sherlock had teased him about lay motionless. He didn't seem to be frowning or smiling and if the question-marked tension were to continue any longer, Sherlock was sure he himself would explode. 

Had something gone wrong? Had he said none of that out loud? He wished John would do something, shout, laugh, cry, punch him in the face, anything. The silence was getting too suffocating. 

Now that he had let it out, it felt much better than he had expected. The reason why he had decided to do this was, as rational a person as he was well-known for, he had concluded that revealing his bleeding heart and getting a limp response was so much better than living with a constant, nagging, asphyxiating "what if". He was proud. But something, the consequences, were starting to dawn on him. What now?

“Sherlock,” John said. It wasn’t a question, statement, or exclamation. He uttered the word as if he wanted to savor the now alienated name in his tongue. Sherlock’s heart was doing funny things by now like it had fallen to the pit of his stomach and he found it difficult to breathe.

“You,” John said, in a deep growly voice which seemed to come from the bottom of his throat and looked up at him in the eye. Maybe something had seriously gone wrong in Sherlock’s system because the snarling tone sent shivers up his spine making the lower part of his abdomen, the place where he had thought his heart had fallen into, warm and fuzzy. 

He was struck by his beauty again. John’s grand, white eyes- he had never stared at him so close and so piercingly before- were smittening and were so precious along with his other adorable features. Sherlock was never going to get over their colossal beauty and the fact that this was the third time he was seeing him after faking his death for two years just amplified the sensation. 

He lost himself in the significance of John’s face, slipping into his old habit of mentally videotaping every inch and movement of his face, for the thousandth time. The practice brought him closer to his love, like a warm band wrapped them together, trapping him in the confined space between. 

“Were dead.” John finished. 

What. Sherlock broke off from admiring John’s face. What was he doing? Right. He was proposing to John. 

John’s anger caught up with him and he started spitting out words twice the speed. “You were dead for two years and then you let me go out a lot of times with this woman, let me propose to her and plan an entire wedding-”

“I didn’t know if-”

“Of course you knew! You deduced it!”

Sherlock had heard John yell like this before, at other people. It usually made him want to admire and obey him, but not this time. Making him feel secure was the last thing it did to him.

A moment of deadly silence followed and Sherlock tried not to wince fearing he would scream at him again.

“John-” he started.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he cut him off in a much softer but agonized voice. It left a crack in Sherlock’s heart as well. “If you loved me then why did you let me marry her?” he asked, in the same tone. Usually a question sounded like one but here it sounded like a statement, like a demanding inquiry too weak to fly off of the ground to become qualified as one.

John’s wrecked, pleading face that made Sherlock’s heart ache to hug him tight turned stone-hard again and he continued, in his angry tone, “As far as I know, Sherlock, you’re dead. Since two years ago, in that bloody pavement.”

He said the word “bloody” with so much emphasis, it drenched Sherlock’s heart.


	4. Flaws

Sherlock was choking, drowning- something was missing, something he needed, to match his soul’s ejaculations. What was it? Tears. He almost cried out in rejoice when his nose started to sting and tears welled up in his eyes so fast that it only took seconds for it to overflow and form round, chemically-induced droplets under his eyelids. Blink wrongly any second now, and they would fall. Not that he cared anyway.

“I don’t want to think,” John continued, his voice shaking with anger, or weakness, or whatever emotion he was going through, whatever beast that was trying to predominate him, “-about how much time we wasted, and are wasting, how we almost made it, almost, missed so slim that-” his words were getting unstable- disconnected between every phrase. 

“It hurts me, Sherlock,” it looked like it really did. His white eyes had turned a tint of red on the edges, almost bloodshot. His moustache quivered. 

“It. Hurts. Me. Everyday. As I lay next to Mary. It drives me crazy Sherlock,” he confessed, out of breath, “I don’t even want to think. Can’t imagine. Because if you hadn’t jumped off that building, god knows but I...”

“You could have left her when you saw that I was alive,” Sherlock burst. Tears were already dropping incessantly down his cheeks wetting his thin, white, awkward knuckles on his chin. His throat ached and his sudden voice sounded croaky. He had never cried like this in front of a person since childhood. It felt like rain after an eternal drought.

“Doesn’t work that way,” John glared intimately at Sherlock’s swollen pink eye-rims, softening a little at how the detective wept but that not preventing him in the least of what was forming in his mouth like a watering spring.

“She filled up your place when you were gone. I was angry at you, Sherlock. Still am now.”

Every word he said stabbed him in the stomach like a dagger even though he had known beforehand that this was also a probable outcome. He was pretty sure he was looking ridiculous. His nose was clogged and his eyes stung from drowning in the sodium-soaked liquid. He hand’t minded the tears but now he wanted them to stop. It was getting out of hand and his breathing was getting heavy, rapid, and irregular. He had to bite his quivering bottom lip to prevent himself from gasping out moaning. He tasted the savory tears in the back of his throat, all over his mouth. He wanted to say something, anything, to make it less awkward but he was having such a hard time recollecting himself under control. 

“And I do love her.”

His heart stopped. Sherlock stared at John in disbelief.

John read his face. “Of course I love her, Sherlock,” he said, “You don’t marry a person you don’t love.”

The diamond was shining so beautifully in the box, naive, wanting to be plucked, put on and admired. It’s innocent attempts to seduce in the most elegant ways just made the situation more tragic.

John finally looked, not that he hadn’t looked the whole time, but for the first time, truly looked, at Sherlock, his head and eyes unclouded by any unexplainable emotions. He stared into the eyes of his friend, now proposer, just like he had when it had only been a couple of months since they had first met in the science lab. He looked at Sherlock’s clothes. They were nothing special, something he normally wore when they were going out together at Speedy’s- a white linen shirt and black pants but even the most non-observant or ordinary person would see that they were in their finest shape, dry-cleaned and ironed so that the cuffs were standing perfectly on his wrists and the creases on his shirt were flowing very tightly over his fit stomach. Obviously he had taken a full hot shower sometime during that day. Somehow the scientist had figured out the functional equation to get all of his curls look more abundant and all flow in the right angles. The rich, glossy locks tumbled and fell dramatically, if that was possible, in all directions including his dismayed forehead. The elaborate bush or falling waves had always been a wonder to him. Sherlock’s skin seemed to sort of glow internally, shining on the surface like the sparkling ocean under the sun, even under all those tears, and his lips seemed glossier than usual. John had known all this from the start, especially the lips. 

He had never seen him cry like this before and he could see his eye rims were blood-shot red. Sherlock wiped out the trail of his tears with his palms and stared down at John’s hands on the table. John wondered what Mycroft would think if he saw his baby brother in this state, so soft and vulnerable. Everything about Sherlock was impeccable tonight but the person concerned was experiencing his biggest flaw.


	5. Chapter 5

So much for being a sociopath. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said, not being able to think of anything else to say.

He stood up and started for his coat. He was barely done putting it on when he felt the detective’s presence behind him. It was when Sherlock’s trembling hands groped for his wrist from behind when he could not take it any longer. 

“Sherlock,” he started, turning around as his other hand placed itself carefully on Sherlock’s wrist so that he was holding both of his hands.

He later did not know what it was he had been going to do; if he was going to gently push him away or apologetically twist his hands free but he ended up backing Sherlock up against a wall, just next to the opening of the long corridor. Of course there were stuff in between. For example John had tried to pull his hands away but mysteriously his hands had done the opposite and wrapped themselves more firmly around Sherlock’s forearms, finding an opening in the cuffs of his shirt and wiggling itself in as it soothingly stroked the soft skin inside. The temperature of the room seemed to increase within a moment and John felt himself shaking off his coat. As it landed on the ground with a soft thud, the tips of their shirts were almost touching. 

It all happened in a blur. Sherlock remembered John stepping closer to him, their legs eventually tangling up together, not exactly walking, but half tripping and it was such a relief there was a wall a couple of strides away to stop them from falling. 

And suddenly John was kissing him. 

At first Sherlock was so taken aback that his first reaction was try and push him away. He already had difficulty trying to swallow up all those tears while having no choice but to breathe in shaky shallow gasps through his mouth thanks to his clogged up nose. John’s mouth on top of his just blocked his only air supply route. That wasn’t all- the inside of his mouth and his tongue was all sloppy with a combination of saliva, snot and tears due to the aftermath of his volcanic emotional event. 

It was embarrassing. This wasn’t what the first kiss between John and him was supposed to be like. Sherlock was afraid all of the unnecessary air he had gulped into his chest while he was sobbing would come out and he would end up spitting on the person in front of him. 

But John’s lips were on top of his. Not simply touching, but pressing. His heart reacted first before his brain could process what was happening. The bitter coldness of rejection and hurt that was slowly and eternally freezing, nipping at his entire soul and body melted in that one second, leaving behind a fuzzy, slightly tingly and pleasant electrical wave that flew from his head to the tips of his toes. John’s warm hand was placed firmly on the small of his back while the other was seeping into his hair, grabbing at the back of his head so that Sherlock could not pull away, pressing their lips together harder than ever. 

'John...'

When his astonishment and shock were replaced by pure excitement, he automatically summoned the courage to take a daring step forward. His Johnpalace was hungrily recording every moment and touch of this, every detail. 

‘Oh god, John,’

He let his own fingers spontaneously get tangled up in John’s hair which was much softer than he had expected. His legs were rubbing against his. He could feel John’s body heat seeping into his skin which seemed to ignite something inside of him. This was exactly how had imagined it in his mind palace, only so much better. This was not the wrong time to kiss it was the perfect time to. He was hurt, frost bitten, depressed, insecure, he hadn’t been able to see him for one and a half years and he desperately was in need of John’s comfort. He desired for it, in every way. Everything in the universe turned its pointer towards the one and only truth that whispered, ‘Kiss him back, Sherlock, kiss him.’

But he did have to breathe. It was impossible to pull back, though. Eventually, Sherlock did turn his head a little to tug John’s hair to cough out the block of air that was begging to be spat out. His lips all of a sudden felt very cold. 

Gasping for air, he felt John’s hot breath on his cheeks and John’s tongue left trails of wetness in the place where his tears had been. Sherlock coughed up something that had been clogging his throat and swallowed again in the split second before he turned his head back to meet John’s warm lips.

The moment their lips reunited, John’s tongue entered his mouth, fumbling and probing every edge and corner. This work was much warmer, like he was taking a journey closer to the core of John. He felt John’s fingers grab helplessly at his hair, swirling, sprawling and tugging at it like a man struggling and grabbing at a straw in the middle of a river, trying not to drown. Sherlock felt his back slightly arc and pulled him closer so their bodies were pressing.

His tongue rubbed against John’s as it passed it to start its journey through his mouth. At first it just synchronized the movements of John’s. Whatever John did, it followed, all tangled up and trying to reconcile with its moves- sliding to the left when John’s went to the right, conceding, providing space and occasionally sliding along with it. But after making sense of the wonderful things that surrounded it, it began to have a heart of its own, a desire and passion to prose the wondrous new continent upon which it had landed. He felt the soft part of his tongue slither above the hard slippery roundish row of things that should be John’s teeth. It licked over the soft and smooth inside of the cheek vibrating as John left out soft moans. The whole investigating thing was frightening, but John held him close and tight. His wet lips were burning, yearning and sometimes receiving the touch of John’s contacting with their tongues, which seemed to have their own free will, as they slid in and out from each other’s mouth. 

His soft wet lips around his were the best thing he had ever experienced. He was not aware of how much time had passed. He could not fathom the length and he was clueless if he needed to take a breath or not. Everything was going so slow but everything was also happening so fast. They were trapped in a universe where time did not exist. The ticks of the second hand of analog clocks, the constant beeps of digital timers, the succession of an aspect so vague that humans chose to divide, group and number them to lessen the confusion of their own making and bringing generations to an implicit consent were all gone. Surrounded by his scent, Sherlock kissed like it was the end of the world. The conception of man enslaving and whipping what they could not understand had vanished, at least in that one moment. 

It felt rougher than John had imagined, probably because his body was slow to get used to the reality of everything, including the touch, but it felt nice to burrow his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. The rain had stopped. It was a weird thing to notice at a time like this, but strangely, over the noises they made, he could not hear the constant drumming of the streaks on the panes. John felt Sherlock tremble. The poor boy was shaking. His lips were so tender and sensitive right now all because of him and he felt so guilty for it. He broke off form the kiss once in a while to lick off the salty tear stains.

He had to say something to him, to assure that everything was okay. 

“Sherlock,” he blurted out. It took a moment for Sherlock to focus his eyes on him. His eyes were different, clouded in lust but strangely determined. They were different than when he was high, when he was on drugs. They had a sense of vacancy and through them one could still see the supernatural churnings of intelligence processing light-speed in his head. He was still the high-functioning, wonderful Sherlock. He could see those elements in his eyes but it was also misty with love and sentiment- the Greatest human error. The system had shut down but strangely it was still working and prospering to its fullest- more than its fullest. John was not sure how the science had worked but love was acting like some sort of fuel for him. He was beautiful. 

“I tried not loving you but it made me love you more,” he panted, sliding his trembling hands down Sherlock’s back. Then he kissed him again. 

Sherlock loved how John was pinning him against the wall. The hard surface dug into his bones and his scars on his back as John pressed closer to him. It led him to feel a deep satisfaction running until the pit of his stomach making the blood in his abdomen boil and he led out a deep throaty groan. 

Sherlock was aware he was making throaty, cloggy noises. It was slightly embarrassing. But they kissed, pulled back, kissed, and pulled back about a dozen times, for what seemed like forever. It made high-pitched, squeaky kissing sounds all over the flat, overlapping what Sherlock was making, which made the whole sequence of sounds extremely romantic. And John’s lips were so sweet.


	6. Chapter 6

John grabbed his hand and led him to the bedroom. Sherlock’s head was so fuzzy like he was drunk or something that he didn’t really care where they were headed. John’s hands felt firm and promising on his own so he followed, half stumbling- he might as well have had on a blindfold, until they reached the familiar door. 

They were in there in a second. All Sherlock could remember was a blur of actions. There was a click and the lampshade was turned on. They were standing so close together after the kiss it was not even awkward. At first Sherlock took a couple of steps backwards but then John started placing his entire weight on him and fuck, his own knees were getting so shaky, and he fell backwards on the bed. 

It wasn’t painful or anything, just really exciting. John’s legs were locked around Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s feet were still touching the floor and his legs were supporting John’s as they wrapped around them. On the bed, John was on top of him, arms just beside Sherlock so that he didn’t have to support all of his weight but he could still feel the soft hot flesh of John’s hard stomach through the thin clothing of their shirts. He felt it move along with his breathing. He knew well enough the respiratory rhythms of human beings, how they indicated flow of thoughts or state of mind and he could easily deduce to psychology of the person by their breathing patterns.

The mattress felt fresh and soft under his back and John’s beautiful face, just an inch away from his nose, was staring into his own eyes. John’s eyes were so shiny, even though the room was half dark and Sherlock could see traces of tears under them as well. 

For a moment, they lay there, two teary-eyed lovers, caught up in each other’s gazes, soaking in the moment that they had desired for so long. 

“You look beautiful,” John said to him, after a long moment of their eye gaze. His breath was real soft against his lips and chin. 

They brought their lips together again and this time nothing was abrupt. John’s fingers dug into Sherlock’s hair again and Sherlock brought his hands around John’s back. 

John’s kiss moved lower to Sherlock’s chin, then to the soft skin under it. He kissed his cheek for a brief moment before moving down to his neck, leaving a trail of warmth behind. He let out a moan, closing his eyes, pleasant shivers running down his spine, and John caressed his head. 

Fingers slowly fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. Their eyes locked, and that was when John started undoing them. Sherlock hesitated, a part of him was telling him to make him stop, but he did not move as he watched John undo them with his shaking hands. It was too late when he lay his hand on his arm, when he was almost finished and a gasp escaped from his lips. 

Sherlock felt inappropriately exposed. If he had confessed his feelings before the fall, maybe the first presentation of him to John would not be like this. But before he could lift himself up, the lips started kissing the spots where the scars and bruises were. It felt wet, cold, but warm at the same time. 

“Oh John....” a high pitched gasp escaped from his lips. It felt like bolts of electricity were passing down from neurons near his skin where John’s lips were touching, vibrating through his stomach, intensifying in his ass and the backs of his thighs and making their way to the tips of his toes.

John was literally kissing every single bruise and scar that had been made on Sherlock’s body. It was insane- he could not contain himself. He didn’t even know there were so much cuts. 

His own cries as each one of them had been created in Syria still echoed in his ears. The piercing pain had not diminished or numbed out as more were made, blow after blow- each slash had been separate, they had all hurt at once, but they had all hurt alone. He had let himself cry out and even beg but he had bit his tongue until it bled every time he wanted to scream, “John.” He could never let them figure out his pressure point. 

The kisses from the army doctor were unlike any bandage that had been put on them after Mycroft saved him. Scars continued below all the way to his thighs and Sherlock felt the doctor’s delicate fingers pull down his pants as the texture of his wet lips still lingered near his waistline. Soon John had his mouth, tongue and hands all over his legs and Sherlock lay, eyes looking above, secretly in heaven. 

It was not long before he heard a sniff and his skin suddenly started to feel wetter than usual. He brought John closer to him so that he could see his face. Not surprisingly, it was filled with tears. 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said, before he even asked him what the matter was as John realized with guilt, “The wounds weren’t healed yet when I knocked you down at the restaurant.” He had never expected to see signs of such torture- he knew what they meant- he was a soldier- and it had been one experience that he had never wished to share with Sherlock.  
Sherlock responded by kissing him again. Maybe a part of John wanted to wash away his sorry feeling. He pressed down harder than ever and both of them started to silently moan as John ripped off his shirt. 

It was like the fucking titanic capsizing- they rocked up to the side so hard that when Sherlock found himself over John he had no idea why the covers were on top of him until he saw John’s grasping hand on his shoulders let go of them. One of John’s cool thighs was pressing his balls. Soon they found his opening and starting rubbing the entrance. Then John’s right hand grabbed his cheek and Sherlock silently cried out as he put his gaping mouth over his soft warm neck. John started brushing his length up and down his abdomen and Sherlock felt tears well up in his eyes which was ridiculous because they hadn’t even started fucking yet.

John turned him around so that Sherlock could now see John’s ankles. He felt fingers grasp his cheeks again and opened him up. His lips kissed straight on top of the taught sensitive skin and stayed there for a while, motionless. He moaned loudly, burying his face into the soft mattress when John then started frenching. He felt is spine arch at the sensation of his tongue slithering in and out.

A salivated finger penetrated, one, two, then three and four suddenly picking up way too much speed. He wanted it to go more rapid, and John seemed pretty impatient as well although Sherlock could feel John’s hands were literally shaking summoning the willpower to slow down, maybe constantly reminding himself of Sherlock’s fragile scars. 

“John, John, John,” Sherlock gasped. As much as he wanted to, his body seemed to need time adjusting. While a couple of fingers were still stuck in him, slowly rubbing his inner walls, he heard John spit in his other hand. When he did that, the motion of those fingers abruptly changed along with the sound. He heard John moan on the other side massaging his shaft. It sounded hard. 

Hands slid over his back all the way to his shoulders, leaving trails of wetness down his spine and Sherlock opened wide to let John come in. John gripped his shoulders for dear life as he pushed in and out. He felt his whole body move in time with John’s thrusts, his hair slinging back and forth while his mouth gaped open. When he went forward, he could see the floor of the bedroom from the mattress. He thought he was going to fall headfirst out of the bed, which, of course, speaking in terms of gravity, was not possible. 

The rhythm got faster and faster like the pulse detecting machine of a person having a heart attack. When John was on the edge his teeth involuntarily dug into Sherlock. Sherlock screamed meekly under the bangs but John heard it all the same. 

In a flash, John gripped him by the shoulders and flung him around, his knee sort of supporting himself like the middle needle of a compass. It was the most phenomenal feeling and he felt like he was the first person that felt this. He felt John’s cock rotate inside of him. Soon he was lying face-up on the bed and was seeing the ceiling. 

“Fuck, John, how did you-,” he laughed out of shock. 

“You are the one with the Judo certificate,” he replied, still inside him, despite the reverse of position. Giggles escaped out of both of their lips. 

They kissed, continuing to thrust, but it soon turned into crying out into each other’s mouths while John pounded into him as he hand-jobbed Sherlock’s erection.

When they came, John thought Sherlock’s arching back made the perfect imitation the London Bridge on top of the disorganized sheets which resembled the flowing water streaks of Thames. Sherlock had gotten so skinny over the two years John could see his pale ribs revealing themselves more than ever. 

John quickly grabbed the covers and crawled on top of Sherlock’s panting chest. His arms and legs felt like rubber about to collapse. He saw him close his eyes.

“Sherlock, I love you,” John confessed, curling up in his arms. It gave him an invincible feeling, an emotion that said nothing could never hurt him and his lover when they were both close together underneath covers. Not even Moriarty. 

There was no anxiety to be smelt in him- just sweetness. Sherlock was alive, and there was no going back. 

Sherlock combed away a strand of hair form John’s forehead with his thumb, smiling. He was sure they could stare at each other like this until morning. His eyes would never stop being so thirsty for his look.

Sherlock’s heart was so overwhelmed with pleasure that it was beating fast. He was not going to get over this for a while, that was for sure. Finally, John was his. There was proof that his body could feel: skin over skin, warm bodies wrapped around each other feeling the synchronized rise and fall each other’s ribcage, the echo and vibration of soundwaves through the body when he talked, like they were never going to fall apart, as if that night were going to last forever.


End file.
